Funeral Trouble
by Topaz Tsubasa
Summary: "How to Not Be Awkward at Funerals" is a book that our dear Squall should've picked up when he was a kid. AU, Unbeta'd


_A/N: Do you know how long this took me to write. Do you. Because not even I know how long this took me to write. This was just a means for me to exercise my brain, so over the course of the past half a year or so, I've been going over it and slightly tweaking it for no reason whatsoever. I don't even know if the events that transpire here are plausible, it was just some practice for me to write the male POV. Anyway, this was inspired by a scene in a certain AU where Squall and Rinoa had actually met at Julia's funeral. (The story was Leather Black Diary by Niqsta; go read it if you haven't. And if you have, just assume the circumstances here are a lot like in there, as if this were a fanfiction of that fanfiction.) So here it is. Please note that Squall is younger than he would be in FFVIII if this were canon.  
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Disclaimer: I no own FFVIII.

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><p>Funeral<p>

Squall felt like he was way out of his comfort zone. Give him a familiar environment where he had a clear goal in mind and the qualifications to achieve it, and you couldn't ever actually call him a happy camper, but he at least wouldn't feel like he wanted to disappear into the wall. He would almost take one of Selphie's dances over _this_.

Scattered around a big room with dimmed lighting were people in mostly-black outfits, only a few of whom he recognized. Many wore somber expressions, accentuating the gloomy atmosphere, and the ones that weren't were crying.

Hyne, the crying. Squall didn't know what it was about him and crying, but every time he heard a sniffle, his back pressed further against the green-painted plaster in the futile hope that he would be swallowed into it. He must have looked odd—outwardly, he was standing ramrod straight, as if pinned to the wall. However, Squall's discomfort was evident, as his eyes could never stay trained on one place. He trailed his gaze all over the room, taking in random, inconsequential details in an effort to keep himself from going insane.

That was when he spotted a lone figure, tucked in a corner like he was. What caught his attention was the fact that her eyes were dry as bone. Odd, considering it was her mother's body in the casket.

Edea was in another room comforting General Caraway, but it was still a voice that sounded strangely like hers at the back of his head that urged him to go to the girl. His first impulse was to push the voice into the nether of his mind and let it go unheard; after all, what could Squall do? _Talk_ to her? He was uncomfortable enough just standing alone; trying to engage in conversation with someone who was so obviously grieving would only make him stiff and awkward, turning the situation into something painful for all parties involved.

Yet, without his permission, his feet started moving him to her position.

She caught sight of him as he neared her, her expression so out of it that Squall would have thought she was daydreaming, had her eyes not been following him as he advanced. It made the discomfort roll in his stomach, but he still continued onward, finally stopping in front of her.

For an agonized moment, Squall had nothing to say, until he blurted, "I'm sorry."

Her reaction was a second too late to have come normally. The girl's mouth spread into a thin facsimile of a smile, and he only knew her as Caraway's daughter, but he didn't feel unfounded when he surmised that she was as unimpressed with his bland choice of words as he was and was merely being polite. Squall sighed. He should've just quit then and there, but the idea of leaving this spot put a sour taste in his mouth. So he paused and very carefully deliberated what he was going to say next.

"I know what it's like." The words came out of his mouth rigidly, three hairs shy of cracking and revealing how exposed talking about his past made him feel.

Her head tilted to the side, but no sound came from her lips. Squall took that as a cue to mean she was intrigued. "I lost my mom too. When I was six."

She blinked, and then brought her hand to her chest, looking lost in a way that—dare he say it—tugged at his heartstrings. "What did you do then?" she asked, surprising him with the soft, light tone of her voice.

He stared at her for a moment, trying to decipher what it was about her that didn't just bring him out of his comfort zone, but made him step out of it of his own volition. When she looked like that—like she'd lost her direction, like she was the little kid he saw in the mirror every day all those years ago—there wasn't anything he could do but answer honestly. "I...cried. My old man sat me down the night of the funeral and told me to cry it all out, so I could smile about her later. So I did."

"Did you feel lonely?" The edges of her eyes were starting to rim with saltwater.

An internal alarm wailed at the sight. Squall frowned and forced himself to concentrate on giving her an answer. The sooner he said what he needed to say, the sooner he could stop _being_ this way. "Yes. But that's what the crying was for—so that when those times came, I could remember her and feel better."

The girl didn't say anything else, just seemed to soak in his words. This was his cue to leave. He tried to step back, but his conscience couldn't quite let him leave yet. A huff escaped his nose. What was left?

The only thing he could think to do was look her in the eye and say, "Cry now. Smile later." Awkwardly, he reached out and patted her shoulder. There. _Now_ he could leave, and he made to turn away, only to be stopped by a mass of flesh and _girl_ slamming into his chest.

Sobs wracked her body, trembling fists clinging to his suit jacket. Stupefied, Squall's first thought was, 'Was it the shoulder pat?' Then he realized exactly what was going on and was overwhelmed by the urge to run. He stood there, frozen, arm still hanging in the air from when he pat her before.

"Squall!" A loud whisper came from the right. He nearly gave himself whiplash turning his head in that direction.

It was Laguna. 'Hug her,' he mouthed, motioning his arms in a way that signified enveloping. What the hell? Did he even know they were at a funeral? Squall scowled at him, but Laguna nodded vehemently, urging him to continue.

Whatever. Squall couldn't deny that he knew nothing about what to do in this situation, and despite his laud antics, Laguna did make sense. Maybe it'd help stop her crying. Not quite sure of himself, Squall mechanically wrapped his arms around the girl's surprisingly thin frame. No change. He glared at Laguna, who apparently wasn't done; he waved his hand up and down, as if caressing the air.

'What?' Squall mouthed, confused.

'Do it!' Laguna urged him yet again.

He turned his eyes back down to her so that he could see if what he was doing was wrong and slowly, he imitated his dad's movements. No change. Was that good? From the corner of his eye, he saw Laguna throw him a thumbs up. So it was good.

Crying made utterly no sense.

Laguna then left to the back room in a proud strut that dissolved into a reserved tread as he finally remembered that he was at a funeral. Squall would have face-palmed if it wasn't for the fact that his arms were otherwise occupied.

As he stood there, he fixated on a certain point straight ahead so he wouldn't shift from foot to foot. It had made the girl in his arms disappear from his sight completely. Something struck him then—a little ping that rushed forth from the back of his mind.

The girl, she was so _small_. And obviously, a lot of girls were compared to him, but right now she was especially small somehow, tucked into his chest, hunched over and just the complete opposite of someone like her _should_ have been. He wanted…he wanted to _hide_ her. He wanted to keep her in his arms and not let anyone else see how tiny, how vulnerable she was.

Miraculously, the awkwardness faded. And even though her tears had already soaked through his shirt and tie, Squall was content to stand there until she stopped crying.

Which he did. It must have taken like an hour, but he did.

Afterwards, she gingerly stepped away. Her eyes, red rimmed, took notice of his ruined shirt. "I'm sorry," she said sheepishly, a world away from how she was before.

Something inside him sank with relief at the new emotion displayed. She was clearly drained—she had to be, after all that had happened—but she would be fine. He thought. He hoped. He hoped? Hyne all mighty. In the time that it had taken for her to soak his chest to the bone, he'd actually grown to care about her well-being. The only other girl he felt that way about was his sister Ellone, which said plenty about how truly mystifying this was.

And he didn't even know this girl's name. "Don't be sorry," he said, clearing his throat, which had suddenly become stiff. "Just get better. And this might be late, but could you tell me your name?"

The girl tilted her head slightly, hands coming together over her stomach. It felt like a hint of what she was like outside such wearisome circumstances. Softly, she said, "Only if you tell me yours."

Okay, more than a hint. "Squall Leonhart," he said gruffly, fighting the heat that was beginning to rush to his cheeks. Why was he talking to her again? "I took my mom's last name after the funeral." And why did he need to add that?

Squall could practically see her soak in the information, as if what he'd told her was the best thing she'd heard all day. A muted, but triumphant glint shone in her eye.

"Rinoa Heartilly. As of right now, so did I."

The funeral director chose then to announce that the viewing was over, and everyone was to go home because the family had chosen a private burial. Laguna appeared out of nowhere and quickly ushered Squall off, citing some excuse about not wanting General Caraway to see another Loire get involved with another Heartilly. As the two of them followed the crowd out, Squall looked back to see a haggard Caraway wrap an arm around his daughter.

She was looking at Squall, though. And that was the last bit of eye contact the two of them had until years later, when they met again through a sea of extraordinary circumstances.


End file.
